


Things We Share

by Eglantine



Category: Les Misérables - All Media Types, Les Misérables - Victor Hugo
Genre: Friendship, Gen, Hurt/Comfort, Rain, taking shelter
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-01-30
Updated: 2013-01-30
Packaged: 2017-11-27 12:07:44
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 769
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/661828
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Eglantine/pseuds/Eglantine
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Bossuet and Joly share everything, including a shelter from the rain on the barricade.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Things We Share

**Author's Note:**

> "Laigle de Meaux, as we know, lived more with Joly than elsewhere... The two friends shared everything, even to some degree Musichetta... On the morning of the 5th of June, they went to breakfast at the Corinth. Joly, whose head was stopped up, had a bad cold that Laigle was beginning to share. Laigle's coat was threadbare, but Joly was well dressed."
> 
> -Les Miserables, Book 12, Chapter 2.

Bossuet found Joly tucked into a nook in the side of the barricade, protected at least in part from the rain by an overhanging bit of what was possibly a table. Bossuet had passed by at least once before, but missed the spot in the dark.

“You bastard,” he said at once, and Joly looked up, startled. “I’ve caught your cold.”

“Well,” Joly said calmly, edging over immediately to make room beneath the overhang and drawing an extra handkerchief from his pocket. “What on earth did you expect? I told you that you would, and running about in this rain all day…” 

“We shouldn’t have given your umbrella to Courfeyrac,” Bossuet said, accepting both handkerchief and shelter gratefully. There wasn’t much space: he and Joly were pressed shoulder to shoulder, but it was warmer and far drier than Bossuet had expected. 

“He passed it off to Feuilly, I believe,” Joly said. “When they were shooting from the windows. I believe the runoff from the gutters was giving them some trouble with keeping their powder dry.  So it has served a noble purpose. That is a benefit, you know,” he added as Bossuet muffled a sneeze with the handkerchief. “I can hardly smell the gunpowder. I’m a bit glad of it, really. I can’t stand the smell of gunpowder.” 

“The smell I don’t mind, it’s the smoke,” Bossuet said. “I don’t suppose a cold aids in seeing through smoke?”

“No, not at all, I’m afraid,” Joly said with a small smile. “Here…” 

Bossuet was down to his shirt sleeves, overthings lost somehow in the chaos of the first attack, but Joly, though he had sacrificed his umbrella, still had his greatcoat. He shrugged it off and draped it over both of their shoulders, his coat over their laps. Bossuet reached suddenly for Joly’s arm. 

“You have blood on your sleeve. You should—”

“It’s Bahorel’s,” Joly said shortly, pulling away and crossing his arms protectively across his chest. “It’s his. It isn’t mine.” 

“You aren’t hurt?” Bossuet asked. Joly shook his head. “You’re certain?” He nodded. “Joly…”

“Don’t fuss, I’m fine, I promise. I really feel quite alright. I fancy the worst of this cold will come tomorrow, and by then that shall be the least of my troubles.”  

Bossuet put a firm hand on Joly’s shoulder. Joly, whose gaze had been directed intently downwards, looked up at him.

“You know that isn’t what I meant.” 

“I only meant you won’t have to hold a grudge for long. My cold is already far worse than yours will have time to get.”

“Maybe we should try and wash out your sleeves.” 

“I’m a medical student. I should hope I can stand to have a bit of blood on my shirt.” 

Bossuet relented.

“I only came here to scold you,” he said said with a sigh, burrowing a little deeper into Joly’s coat. “You’ve gotten me entirely off-course.”

“But also a bit dry, you may note.” He leaned forward to peer out into the street behind the barricade, but between the dark and the rain it was hard to make out more than the silhouettes of their companions, huddled against buildings and on paving-stones, waiting out the night. “Do you think anyone is actually sleeping?” 

“Could you?” Bossuet asked with a short laugh. “My heart hasn’t stopped pounding since the first shots were fired. I couldn’t sleep if I wanted to. Don’t tell anyone,” he added after a moment. “I think Enjolras would consider fear unpatriotic.” 

“It’s alright. To be afraid.” Joly smiled. “But I won’t tell, in any case.”

“I won’t lie,” Bossuet said, smiling crookedly in return. “I rather hoped that, as always, you would be more frightened than I am. I mean,” he added quickly, “I did come to scold you as well. But that was only part of my purpose.” 

Joly laughed, and to Bossuet that seemed like answer enough. They leaned back closer against the barricade, pulling the coat tighter around their shoulders, and Bossuet watched the rain drip off of the edge of the table sheltering them. Time passed, Bossuet couldn’t have said how long, before Joly spoke, his voice very soft.

“It was never dying that I was afraid of.” Bossuet looked over at him, but Joly was gazing myopically at the rain, his spectacles slipped too far down his nose to be of any use. “It was wasting away. My mind and my heart outliving my body’s ability to keep up.” 

Bossuet opened his mouth to answer—but sneezed instead. Joly laughed.

“You should have kept the umbrella, at any rate.”

“Yes, I suppose so.” 


End file.
